


Simple

by Elektra Pendragon (elekdragon)



Series: Not Wired to be Normal [3]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Anal Sex, Daddy Kink, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Episode Related, Father/Son Incest, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Parent/Child Incest, Sleep Sex, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 23:41:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12119823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elekdragon/pseuds/Elektra%20Pendragon
Summary: It was both the best and worst night of Jughead's life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set during chapter 7 of season one. Based on a kinkmeme prompt, but expanded from that original post: http://riverdale-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1356.html?thread=41804#cmt41804. Prompt: "i'm trash and i've wanted jughead riding his dad while calling him daddy ever since FP was introduced."

"The Shaggin' Wagon!" 

Dad's eyes were shining, and not from any sort of booze. He was sober, smiling, joking. He'd just finished a hard day of work on the construction site with Mr. Andrews. Even as Jughead blushed at the embarrassingly teen-boy ridiculousness that was an old bus's nickname, he was flushed and warm at seeing his dad like this. It was like the old days, when Dad would come home to eat and talk instead of drink and pass out. When they still had a home. 

Jughead ignored the flare of anger that came up at the thought of the house they'd lost, instead focusing on his father telling another story of when he was young.

"This was before your dad had game," his eyes danced between Archie and Mr. Andrews, FP putting on a show now that he had everyone's attention, playing the charming host to a small audience. "Senior Year, he started a band, and then the girls were all over him."

Jughead could almost see FP back then, wide-eyed and pretty, like in the one grainy "wedding" photo his mom had kept in the kitchen drawer. It was his favorite to look at, FP with his corners all smoothed down by youth, his face round, smiling into the camera and holding his visibly pregnant wife, as though he'd just been handed the world, and not another burden. 

He looked a little like that now, smiling at Mr. Andrews, leaning into his space. His arm was slung over the back of the booth, and for a moment Jughead let himself pretend that he was in Mr. Andrews's place. What it would feel to be so close to the man, feeling his warmth so openly, his attention, the casual touch of his hand. To be there, himself, but older, on the same level. 

His heartrate skyrocketed when FP's eyes made contact with his lingering gaze for a moment before rolling back to Mr. Andrews. "He doesn't care about that stuff, Fred. Football. Sports. Takes after his mom in that respect, and I mean that as a compliment."

The whole night, Jughead had wanted his father's attention on him, and suddenly he wanted to squirm as FP turned and smiled down at him. "I'd rather see you spending your time writing, thinking up stories. You still do that?" His fingers danced in the air, his voice light and teasing. "Nose in a book? Typing away?"

Jughead had to break off eye contact, focus on something other than the gorgeous man in front of him. He barely heard Archie's voice beside him, until Betty's name dropped like a bomb between them. 

Dad seemed to leap on the name instantly, his voice shivering in a joking away. "Betty? Ooooh." He tapped on the table, making Jughead jump a little in his shoes. "Is that your girlfriend?" His face seemed so fucking interested, laser-focused on Jughead in a way that he'd always wanted, but it made his stomach turn. 

"I want to know more about the band. What was the name of the band?"

Fred's discomfort distracted his dad away from following his teasing, just as he hoped. Of course, Jughead knew what the band was called. His father loved to talk about his youth, when he was strong and the world had been so easy. It was something else to talk about, something that wasn't Betty. 

Betty was... Betty was something that felt like his last chance. She was something that wasn't quite normal, but as close to it he'd ever be able to get. He wanted it to work, wanted to fall in love with her and get married and have a family and hope that whatever this curse was that festered in his soul would not fall on his own children. She seemed to like him. He wanted that to be enough. 

Betty was good, and he didn't want to talk about her with his dad, not when he couldn't even get hard anymore without thinking of his father, not while he wanted to be fucked by his father so badly. Jughead didn't like thinking about sex when it came to Betty. It was... dirty. Wrong. Betty didn't deserve to be sullied with such dark thoughts. She was his last chance for something normal.

"Hey, excuse me. Pop?" FP's voice wasn't that loud, but it felt like a shout in the small diner. He was twisted in the booth, his eyes moving quickly between the retreating Pop and Mr. Andrews. "We invited you guys out," he said with an angry whine to his voice. It was his pre-freak out tone, the one he used before he got really mad. Instantly, tension filled the air as he gestured Pop to return to the table, fighting to get his wallet out. Pop laid the bill back on the table, giving Jughead a peek at the cost.

He felt a moment of panic, that maybe his dad didn't have enough money, and they'd be back in that awful place of everyone knowing what a loser he was. Jughead tried to dissolve the tension. "Let me pay."

"Put your damn money away." His father's voice was harsh, angry, but in control. Instantly, Jughead was hard beneath the booth, so hard he was dizzy as he hunched over the remains of his fries. FP glared at Mr. Andrews, staring the other man down as he handed over his money, daring him to fight over this. "You owe me this."

FP was so hot when he was (sober) in control. Jughead shoved the rest of his fries in his mouth, willing his erection to go away before the pissing contest was over, so he could leave with a shred of his dignity intact. This stupid dinner needed to be done. It had been a stupid idea, a complete failure at being normal.

But Archie, fucking Archie, just didn't want FP to leave. He invited him over to talk about guitars and music, and Mr. Andrews just went with it, like he'd gone with everything that night. They split up by blood, fathers and sons getting into their trucks to head over to the Andrews house.

\---

Jughead remained silent, watching, as Archie and FP talked about bands and music. FP's face was completely focused on Archie, his eyes dancing as he gestured wildly, as mesmerizing here in this dark garage as he was in Pop's. When Archie dug out a second guitar, Fred had left them to it, pleading exhaustion as he nearly ran from the soundproofed garage. 

Jughead barely allowed himself to blink as they settled on stools, each taking up a guitar and playing. He wanted to remember every moment, savor the memory of his father being so happy. FP was out of tune and off-beat, strumming like a drunk with the DTs and enjoying himself immensely. He was just plain awful, but Archie just played along, bringing harmony to the discord.

Maybe if Jughead had had the talent for music instead of writing, maybe his dad would look at him like he was looking at Archie, like he was proud of something he made. Real pride, not that showy look his dad gave him when he teased him about his writing. Music and football was something that FP could understand, not old films and moody writing.

The night was winding down--fucking finally!--as Archie set aside his guitar, and the garage went quiet. Jughead had spent far too much time just observing his father having a great time, and his ass was falling asleep. He stood and stretched, trying to send quiet signals to Archie that playtime was over. 

Instead of heading towards his jacket, or even the door, FP casually strolled towards the vintage fridge in the corner, setting the guitar aside. "Hey, Archie, does Fred keep any beer in there?"

Jughead's heartbeat skipped. Archie looked uncomfortable, tripping over his tongue as he shot panicked looks at Jughead. Yes, there was beer in the fridge, but it wasn't Fred's, and it definitely wasn't what FP needed right now. "Uh, Dad, don't you think it's a little late?" He gestured at the door. 

At least FP could read some of Jughead's signals, catching on that he just wanted to leave. He mumbled in agreement, steering himself away from the promise of alcohol and towards his flannel and jacket. They were so close to having the perfect evening Jughead always wanted. It was both the best and worst night Jughead had had in a long time--his father was sober and attentive, but Jughead was still so locked into dark longing he couldn't just let himself be the happy son. Every guilt-laden heartbeat was bringing him closer to the moment they could break apart, escaping before things went horribly wrong. 

Then Archie slammed his foot in his own mouth. 

"Hey, Mr. Jones, before you go, can I ask you a question?"

Jughead felt a chill creep into his fingers, and his elbows ached.

"Yeah."

"Earlier tonight, you said my dad owed you. What did you mean by that?"

Jughead squeezed Archie's shoulder, leaning into his space to make his meaning clear. "Hey, Archie, why don't we quit while we're ahead?" / _Please don't do this to me, Arch_./ Jughead felt like screaming.

But Archie was utterly obtuse, unable to read simple human emotions, even when it was his best friend nearly vibrating out of his skin. "It's just--I mean, it's just a question." So fucking innocent. So fucking oblivious. "Did something happen between you two?"

So fucking self-absorbed. 

FP shrugged, looking worn down for the first time that night. It was an old look, the kind of look he'd had since he'd lost his job. Jughead could feel the cold ice down his spine, his heart stuttering before pitching into quick, thick beats. 

"It's ancient history."

/ _But it's not, it's just months old, it's just like yesterday, Dad_./

"But, your dad and me, we started Andrews Construction together."

"You and my dad were partners?"

FP chuckled, his throat thick as he started to tell the old tale. "He wouldn't call us that." 

Jughead knew this story too, the way that burdens had heaped onto his father, burdens like Jughead, and his sister, and bills, and life. There were times when Jughead really wished he'd never been born--or maybe, just born different. If he'd been anyone else, he could have found a way to make his dad happy, happy enough he wouldn't need to drink. If he wasn't his father's son, he could have been his lover, young and eager and loving him enough to make things better. If only... if only...

But unlike Archie, Jughead couldn't live in that type of dream world. He was stuck here, aware of every minute, of every molecule of the air as his father's despair took over. 

"You know, I think I need something a little harder than beer."

He should have known that his father couldn't go far without something in arm's reach. FP was an 8am drunk; of course he wouldn't leave the house without booze. He dug a flask out of his jacket, unscrewing the top and swallowing the powerful brew until he became fuzzy and distant. 

It felt a little like his world falling apart, watching his father go from sober to drunk, from in control to wobbling in disorder. That it was happening in front of Archie, perfect fucking Archie, was an added humiliation. Sure, Mr. Andrews had his own brush with alcoholism, but he'd never fallen as far as Dad had. The two boys shared the uncomfortable silence of children used to their parents getting drunk and clumsy. 

It started with the flask, then graduated to those beers that Jughead had thwarted him from earlier. FP was still charming, still commanding his audience, but his words were dropping off, his sentences dissolving into sighs and giggles as he lost his place. It didn't matter, they were well-worn stories, things that Jughead had heard a thousand times before. When he'd started rehashing the very stories he'd told earlier that night at Pop's, Jughead stepped in to catch his attention. 

"Hey, um, Dad? You think we should head out? It's getting late." 

FP nodded, tossing the empty can away in the general direction of the trash. "Yeah. Big day tomorrow." His eyes opened wide suddenly, then squinted down like he was trying to read fine print. "I need to piss." 

"Dad--"

FP waved him off. He lowered his voice, leaning towards Archie in a conspirator's whisper. "I think your dad's asleep. I'll just go outside." He wobbled his way to the door, leaning out before his feet caught up with him, sending him towards the bushes. 

Both Jughead and Archie blew out a sigh of relief, glad that FP wasn't going to try to go inside the house. Mr. Andrews didn't need to see him like this. They busied themselves, Archie cleaning up the space and Jughead glaring at the wall. Like always, Archie had to be the one to speak. 

"Jughead... what your dad told us... I had no idea."

Fucking innocent little Archie. "Me neither," Jughead lied easily, barely biting back his temper. "Illuminating, isn't it?" He picked at his nails, trying not to look over at Archie. He felt he might scream if he did.

Archie sighed heavily. Jughead could almost see his brain working overtime to defend his own angelic father. "My dad must've had a good reason." 

"For screwing over my dad?" It slipped out before he could stop it, but luckily FP chose that moment to stumble back towards the garage, announcing his approach with a loud, "Are you ready to roll, Jugs?" 

Jughead scooped up his dad's jacket, managing to hide the almost-empty flask into the space between the couch cushions before his father could tumble through the door. The man was smiling, warm and open, as he tossed his keys in the air. Jughead caught them easily against his chest. Even in his drunkenness, his father's aim was still good. 

Jughead was supposed to be spending the night at Archie's, but he really didn't want to. Not with his dad right there, needing to be taken care of. He'd sleep on his old bed, the couch, back at the trailer. "See you tomorrow," he said evenly as he stepped into his father's space. FP rolled into his side, sweeping his arm over his shoulders and pulling Jughead close as they walked towards the truck. Warmth blossomed in his chest at the friendly gesture.

Jughead drove, of course. At the very least, his father had recognized he was more than a little too off to be able to drive safely. The older man huddled into his jacket and snuggled into the bench seat as Jughead revved the engine and waited for the heater to pick up. It was getting colder more quickly at night, winter encroaching on the fall. FP nuzzled into his collar, looking like a puppy settling into a blanket, just impossibly vulnerable as his mind swam with alcohol. 

Jughead pulled out, trying not to look back at Archie's house. It was a bit of a drive to the trailer park, more than 3 times as far as his (old) house used to be. Too far to walk. There were times when they were young when Archie would sneak out of his house and come over to play in Jughead's treehouse. He'd loved that treehouse. FP had built it himself, made it strong and sturdy and perfect for his son. It was something special, something that was his alone, that Archie would never have. Mr. Andrews didn't believe it was safe, and would never build one for his own son. 

It was the one thing he had that was special, that showed him his daddy loved him best in the world. And now it's gone.

All Jughead could do is look at his father's face as he slept, his gaze switching between the empty road and FP's features, mentally tracing them and dreaming of getting to feel those lips.


	2. Chapter 2

The Sunnyside trailer park was brightly lit like its namesake, even this late at night, but it didn't help with the sad, worn-down vibe that permeated the rusted signs. The scratch of gravel was muffled by the closed windows, the squeak of the brakes as he parked in front of FP's trailer. The engine ticked as he withdrew the keys. FP was sleeping, his breath sweetly heavy, bordering on a snore. Snuggled down, he just looked so warm and vulnerable, handsome and tempting.

Jughead threw himself out of the truck, letting the cool air penetrate his clothes, drawing off his arousal. His cheeks burned in the chill breeze, but it did nothing to ease the ache from being so hard for so long. His balls were starting to feel sore, like the come was backed up inside, desperate to be released. He felt he could shoot at any moment, every second another stab of need hitting him to his core. He breathed deeply, holding the chill deep inside as counted to twenty.

The day had been good, up until--but no, he wouldn't waste any more of his time on Archie tonight. They were friends, yes, and he loved him like a brother, but that didn't stop the sharp jealousy and anger he felt against him. At this point, Jughead was used to the negative emotions that mixed and mingled with his every thought of love. He breathed out, watching the curling wisps of his stale breath, still feeling way too aroused and sore. He just needed to get his father inside, and then he could find somewhere private to take care of his problem.

Once he felt nominally back under control, he circled the truck and carefully opened the passenger door. FP was leaning against it enough that he jolted awake as the door opened, his body swaying in the cab as he looked around fuzzily. "Hey," he mumbled, his cheeks dimpling as he looked over at Jughead. His heart gave a painful squeeze at the sight. FP was breathtakingly beautiful at times. 

"Come on," Jughead cajoled, wrapping a hand over his arm and tugging. "Inside."

FP giggled and sighed, a strange light noise that shuddered in the air. He pretty much fell out of the truck, his weight pleasantly heavy in Jughead's arms as he held him up. He held him close for a moment, breathing in his smell, memorizing the feel of him in his arms. Walking was almost like wrestling, his drunken father barely able to assist as they navigated the sodium light leading to the trailer's stairs. Jughead was sweating under his coat by the time he jiggled the keys enough in the lock to elbow the door open. 

The place was pretty much as messy as it had been the day before, but it was easily navigable in the dim light. FP wiggled his arms out of his jacket, getting caught and almost falling over until Jughead helped rescue him. The heavy leather fell to the floor with a thump as soon as he was free. It was an awkward dance as the two shuffled past empty bottles and pieces of trash as he headed towards the couch. They fell together, in a mismatched pile of arms and legs and huffing breaths. FP pitched to the side, almost face-planting into the cushions as Jughead wrestled to keep his father from accidentally brushing his groin. 

"Oh, wow," FP mumbled as he was manhandled, his head loose on his neck. He beat a hand on the couch, looking at the cushion like he'd never known how soft it was before. "I'll sleep right here, on this couch." He breathed slowly, like the very act of filling his lungs was a strange pleasure. He shifted until he was flat out on his back, Jughead trying to lift his legs onto the couch with the rest of his body. "You can have the bedroom."

Jughead sighed out a deep breath to keep from having to acknowledged the way the thought brought a bead of precome dripping from his cock. What better place to find some private time than in his father's bed, surrounded by his scent? He forcibly killed the thought, scooting away as his dad squirmed and kicked. "I'm not gonna take your bed, Dad," he said as he helped to settle his feet in his lap.

"It wouldn't be the first time I crashed on this thing." He squirmed a little, until Jughead started picking at the laces of his boot. "Ah, thank you." He leaned back, grunting in relief. "If you stay--" he nearly sat up again, his drowsy eyes squinting in the twilight darkness to try to read Jughead's face. "Are you?" He seemed almost panicked for a moment, his eyes swimming around the room. "You're gonna stay?" He waited until Jughead nodded, then he fell back, rubbing his eyes. "Don't be late for school."

It made Jughead smile, the normality of it all. Maybe he would stay the night, just for the night. He threw himself into the role of the good son, filling the suddenly silence with familial chatter. "It's all right. I'm already way ahead in all my classes." With Kevin no longer responding to booty calls, living in the school really gave him a chance to catch up with all his homework. He focused on the knot he was untying, talking almost without thinking to fill the silence. "Hey, I talked to Mom." He pried off a boot, setting it on the floor. "She got a job at a call center to pay for her online classes. I guess she's finally going after her GED. Jellybean is helping her study." 

He laughed at that, keeping his eyes focused on the laces, keeping his mind on how real--how NORMAL this all is, how it could be without the surreality of his erection in the way. "By the way, Jellybean wants to go with JB now. She thinks it sounds cooler." He finally pried the last shoe off, tucking it onto the floor next to its mate. "She's 10 years old and listens to Pink Floyd on vinyl, I don't think she could get any cooler..."

Jughead felt that familiar spark of anger when he found his father asleep in the middle of what had felt like the first time in a long time that he was listening. Of course the man was asleep. With how much he'd drunk on top of a day of hard work, he'd probably dropped off before Jughead even started talking. 

Figures. It made the perfect end to the day. It was like he was being punished for his gross thoughts, the tantaling possibility that things could be normal held out of his reach. He couldn't have FP as a real father, anymore than he could have him as his lover. The most he could hope for was a couple stolen moments, and the shame of jerking off alone while using memories to fuel his perverted fantasies. It was pathetic. He was pathetic. 

Jughead stared at his dad. Asleep, he looked younger, like he'd looked laughing and joking with Mr. Andrews. The usual stress was eased. Jughead absently rubbed his father's feet as he stared. It was mesmerizing, being this close, the man so soft and vulnerable. Everything he wanted, right here, just out of reach. He was so tired of fighting, of being denied the smallest bit of happiness. Or pleasure.

Pleasure, so close, he could feel it.

Jughead suddenly realized that he was rubbing his father's feet against his erection, the pressure doing a little to ease the throbbing ache he'd spent hours living with. He stopped his hips immediately, feeling mortified at what he was doing. FP wasn't even awake, and there he was, molesting the man. He stared in horrified guilt at his father's face, searching for any sign of awareness. 

Nothing. 

Jughead couldn't help the guilty twist of his head, the need to check to see if anyone was watching. Of course there was no one. Even if they could see into the trailer, the twilight gloom of streetlights would render the scene a strange tangle of shadows. Nothing really to give away the fact of what he was doing. Just two forms in the darkness. Alone. 

Tentatively, Jughead leaned forward, tilting his hips a bit towards his father. God, he just wanted to touch, to feel, just once, just something. He rubbed his hard cock against the arch of his father's socked foot, moving his hips in slight circles as he increased the pressure. It was heat and pleasure and torture, but no one was there, no one could see him humiliating himself. How pathetic, rubbing off against his own father's foot, like a pervert. He sucked in a shuddering breath, his heart skipping as he crushed his pelvis to his father's foot. 

It felt so good, to have something real, to be able to open his eyes and look down and see his father's slack face even as he shamefully humped his arch. He wanted to be naked, to feel the scratch of wool on his cock, to rub his precome between his toes, to mold his balls into the smooth arch of his sole...

/ _Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck am I doing?!_ / Jughead let go of FP's ankle, tossing himself back into the arm of the couch. The old wood groaned under his weight, the whole couch rocking slightly with the force of his revulsion. 

So close. He had been so close to coming in his pants while dry humping his father's foot. Fuck. He knew he was a pervert, but this was getting out of hand. The familiar shame that usually came after a spectacular orgasm washed over him, doing nothing for his aching balls but twisting the pain of longing even deeper. 

He was sick. Just a pathetic, sick, pervert who was nothing more than trailer trash, with a broken family and a drunk for a dad. He was always a weirdo, shunned by other kids, like they all knew there was something horribly wrong with him. They were right. He had deserved every beating he'd taken. Hell, right now he wanted to punch himself. He thrust one hand into his tight jeans, wrapping his fingers around his feverish prick, and squeezed, hard. He didn't deserve to feel good, he didn't deserve a nice night out as a family. He was broken and rotten, and there was nothing in this world that could fix it.

FP slumbered, drawing soft breaths, unaware of the war raging in his oldest child. For an insane second, Jughead wanted to take the pillow from behind his back and use it to smother the man. The urge passed quickly, his frustration and fear and arousal turning the mental image of patricide into one of simple incest. Instead of smothering him, he could cover FP in kisses. He could taste his slack lips, suck his cock, rub his face against his stubble until he was scratched and burned. He could do whatever he wanted--had very nearly done so when he'd almost fucked his own father's feet.

No one would know. He probably wouldn't even wake up. 

Jughead shook his head, squeezing his cock in another punishing clench that just made him want to moan for more. He shouldn't be thinking this. He shouldn't be doing this. It could destroy everything between them. 

But it would be so worth it. He'd already debased and humiliated himself in so many ways. First coaxing Kevin to play rough and dirty, then finding other men, older men across the river, once Kevin latched onto Joaquin. He'd fucked his own fist so many times, dreaming of FP's mouth. Hell, he'd fucked a bottle pretending it was his dad's dick. He'd nearly fucking come just touching his feet! If he was going to humiliate himself like this, he might as well go all the way. 

He was a terrible person, a pervert, a deviant. Broken, dark and ruined. Why didn't he just go for what he really wanted? His father was passed-out drunk, and Jughead was already damned. 

Just once. He just needed to feel it once, then he could go through his whole life without it. He could settle down with Betty, move far away from Southside and Sunnyside and Riverdale and Greendale and all of it. 

It would be such a simple thing, to use his father's drunkenness as an excuse. When he was drunk enough, stayed drunk enough, his father would lose whole days. He'd probably never even remember anything, even if he woke up. It could be like a dream. 

Jughead didn't allow himself to pause or think it over any further. He just made the decision, and leaned over, rubbing his hands from the warm swell of FP's thighs to the soft pouch of his Henley-covered stomach. He pressed his face into the curve of his balls and breathed in deeply, his fingers pulling at his father's belt and fly. The fabric was worn but stiff with old sweat. The faint smell of hard work and hard liquor clung to everything, from his jeans to the soft flannel. It was familiar from the slow descent his dad had followed for years before finally jumping head first into alcoholism with unemployment. 

Some part of him was grateful that his father didn't also go in for the whoring part of the whole white-trash downward spiral. That would have been more public, more humiliating as rumors of his father's partners would swirl around the small town. But a bigger part felt like it would have been easier. It would have given his mother a better reason to leave, and himself a good reason for staying. It certainly would have made this easier. 

Not that it was exactly difficult, pulling his father's cock out of his pants and into the night air. He held the limp, soft organ in his hand, memorizing the weight, the wrinkles of flesh. He'd long imagined this very moment, stretched out nearly on his stomach, so close to his dad's dick. The sweat smell was stronger now, as he leaned forward to lick a stripe over the saggy skin. Just a quick taste, enough to get some lubrication.

Jughead squeezed his fingers, resettling his grip like a guitar player tuning up as he coaxed a little interest into his father's sleeping dick. For a long moment, he worried that FP was too drunk to even react, but slowly, his penis filled out, lengthening and thickening, feeling weighty and hot in his palm. A grower more than a shower, at half-chub his erection was a good mouthful as he pressed his lips and kissed the peeking crown. Like father like son they were both uncut, and he couldn't wait to feel the whole thing sliding down his throat. He'd sucked cock before, so many times, it was a reflex to stretch his neck, move his lips, and get into position. 

But no, not this time. He wanted something special, something he'd been saving no matter how hard those other daddies begged for it. Later. He could do whatever later, if there was ever another opportunity. But right now, he needed his father inside him.

Jughead licked all the way down to his pubes, then used the combination of loose skin and spit to to jerk his dad to full hardness. FP remained asleep, just making small movements with his hips, his breathing quicker. When Jughead let go in order to find the bottle of lube in his jacket, his dad's proud erection remained firm, jerking onto his stomach as a small, sad whine escaped his mouth. 

"Just a moment, daddy," Jughead couldn't resist saying, a shiver of pleasure making his own dick pulse a thick release of precome. The word never failed to get him going these days, another little humiliation as he called strangers by that sacred name and pretended hard enough to get off when they in turn called him son.

Jughead stood to shuck his jacket completely, kicking off his shoes and shimmying out of his pants completely. He barely swiped at his hole with the lube, just getting it wet enough to work. He wanted to feel it later, to walk around bruised and aching and knowing what it was from. If this was his only chance, then he wanted to remember it for as long as possible. This was his first time, and he wanted it to hurt, to bleed, to give that one last special part of himself to the man he truly loves. 

Jughead was more thorough slicking his dad's cock, feeling every centimeter of skin and working him until a small drop of precum eased out the tip. The slight curve of the hot flesh seemed to fit his palm perfectly, like his hands were made to bring pleasure to this man. The thick lube glittered in the murk, squelching moistly in the quiet. When he let go this time, his dad's dick bobbed in time with his pulse. 

Jughead carefully climbed onto the couch, straddling his dad's hips as he found a way to fit. He settled carefully on top of the soft bump of his lower belly, feeling the hot, wet kiss of his erection slide over his skin. FP's nose wrinkled, his slack hands lifting and dropping clumsily. For a moment, Jughead just hovered, watching his father's face for any sign of awakening. He had always wanted to see those ethereal blue eyes sharp with pleasure, and he was torn between wanting Dad to wake up and stay asleep. He leaned close, looking for any hint of blue, but only felt the faint tickle of his fingertips touching his knee, his sour breath on his face. 

Jughead reached back, flailing for cock until the lube-sticky flesh rolled into his grip. He squeezed, watching that beloved face so close he caught the deep-chest grunt as his father jerked up into his grip.

Jughead resisted the urge to kiss him, and instead slid back, focusing his attention on getting past the tight resistance of his own virginity. He'd fingered himself so many times before, even getting brave enough to try stuffing larger things in his ass once mom moved out, but this was bigger than anything before, even bigger than the bottle. 

He closed his eyes, focusing on the mental image of how they must look right then--his father fully dressed, himself only missing his pants, his small hips stretched wide over his father's hips. No one else could see them, no one else would have this. FP was going to be his first, his only, his best. Jughead's cock twitched, pulsing with pleasure at the thought, distracting him enough to just let the head pop inside. It was a shock of sensation, and he gasped, "Oh, daddy." 

"Jugs?"

Jughead jerked back in surprise, impaling himself more onto his father's burning erection. His eyes snapped open, his heartbeat thudding into his throat as he looked down. 

There was a bare glitter of eyes slitted open, like tears trapped between his lashes. The fingertips at his knee dug in, gripping and holding as a deep moaning groan broke from his dad's throat. 

"Fuck," Jughead breathed. 

Then his father lurched, his hips snapping up in a powerful thrust, fucking a deep burning path through Jughead's body. It ached like overworked muscles, like he was splitting apart and being created anew. Deep! So deep. Sweat broke out over his body, and he shuddered like an exhausted horse. "Daddy," he moaned, his voice oddly high and strained. FP's eyes never opened further than that slit, but his lip curled in that familiar rictus of amused pleasure. He looked like he did when he finished a deal, and things were going his way. 

"Baby," FP murmured. His hands climbed Jughead's thighs, coming up his hips to rub and squeeze and hold him for a few shallow thrusts. The slight friction alone would have been enough to get him off despite the distracting pain, but then his dad's hand--rough, dry, but so strong, so big--wrapped around his dick. 

An unrecognizable sound escaped his mouth, a broken whimper tremoring into a moan that caught and hitched in his throat. 

"Shhhhh," his dad slurred, "son. So good, baby boy. Gon'a ride daddy's cock?"

Jughead gasped another strange noise, his own hips starting a weird jerking circle as he tried to thrust into the tight grip. It caused the cock buried deep inside to jerk and stir up his insides, causing all sorts of conflicting sensations to flood his brain. He hiccuped and gagged, moaned and cried, shook and panted and gasped.

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhh." It was just a breath over pursed lips, but the noise, meaningless and formless, was soothing. Like when he was a kid, waking from a nightmare. Just a noise that let him know daddy is here, you're safe, time to settle down. "Shhh."

"Daddy?" Jughead gasped out, shifting his hips carefully. The aborted in-out glide was a more familiar feeling, something he knew and wanted. 

"C'm'n, baby. Shhh."

This time he managed to rise up shakily on his knees, his body tingling as his father's dick started to slide out with a release of pressure. The tight grip around his own cock rode the movement, pulling down on his foreskin as a counterpoint. He dropped down, the sharp force pushing back in, filling him as suddenly as the first big thrust. This, this was what he'd been wanting. He shifted, rolling his hips as he slammed himself down. The slap of their skin started to fill the air as he found a rhythm, riding his daddy like he's always dreamed. 

Jughead stared down at that beautiful face, the way FP's eyes crinkled at the corners, his teeth like pearls between his slack lips. His eyes were still just two liquid slits in the darkness, never quite opening all the way even as he growled out sloppy encouragements, half-formed words becoming incoherent noises that turned to groans. 

"Oh, daddy. Fuck. Daddy," Jughead chanted with his movements. The term itself seemed to push both of them on. "Daddy, daddy, daddy," he moaned until he burst to pieces, splattering come over his father's Henley. FP's hips studdered, pushing impossibly up and in and then he, too, was coming. The extra internal pressure added another shiver of pleasure, and a long string of come spurted belatedly out of his softening cock. 

When his ears started working again, it was to the familiar sound of his father snoring. Jughead was lightheaded, sore, and tingling with pleasure. He closed his mouth, working up some spit to wet his dry tongue as he tried to calm his breathing. Exhaustion was pulling at him, coaxing him to just slide off to sleep, but he knew he had to move. He could feel the wet slide of his dad's softening cock slowly shrinking and leaving him empty. He flexed his internal muscles, trying to hold him inside, feeling a small jolt of distant pain, but it only delayed the inevitable. 

Jughead had a hard time finding his feet, or his feet were having a hard time finding the floor. Either way they were operating completely independent of his legs, and he wobbled dangerously before all his body parts snapped back together. He looked down, fearing what he'd see.

His dad was asleep, as peacefully as before. What had felt like a giant fist punching into his rectum was now just a cute curl of flesh, exhausted against the darkness of his jeans. The massive load of come he was sure he'd blasted out of his balls was just a few wet stripes soaking into dark spots on the gray fabric of his dad's Henley. The pain and the wet, sloppy feeling in his ass were extra proof that everything had been real, that he'd fucked his father and now the man was sleeping, and it had been the best night of his life. 

Holy shit, he actually did it. He'd fucked his father!

Jughead wanted to laugh, but he was afraid of waking the man. FP had seemed somewhat awake and aware as the fucked--as he road his dad, as he had his daddy's dick in his ass, as he called out his name--holy shit! It was real!

Maybe he would think it was just a dream in the morning. Or, maybe, it had been everything that FP had been dreaming of, too. Maybe they could do it again, this time awake, fucking for hours in the dank atmosphere of the small trailer. 

Carefully, Jughead tucked his father back into his pants, but left his fly open and belt loose. At least this way his dad would be somewhat more comfortable on the couch. He wanted to join him, but it wasn't wise. Not yet, not until he had a chance to measure Dad's reactions, his memories. He'd just go to sleep in the big bed in the back, curled in his daddy's sheets, covered with his smell. At least the come dripping from his ass would be less noticeable in his own dirty sheets. 

Jughead couldn't resist one last touch, a brush of his hand across his father's lips. The man shifted, those wet slits glittering again in the darkness. "Go 'sleep, Joaquin. Daddy's tired."

The name was airy and slurred, but it was clear. Joaquin. That dark-headed boy Kevin was currently hooking up with. The talented boy Kevin was mooning over. 

Holding back the odd feeling of betrayal, Jughead swiped up his discarded clothes into his arms and stumbled to the bedroom. It was a mess, like the rest of the house, but it gave him some room away from the thick scent of sex in the living room. Taking in a shaking breath, Jughead shucked out of the rest of his clothes. He wanted to run, but there wasn't anywhere he could go. He'd just had the most amazing sex of his life, with the man he'd lusted after since puberty. Sure, he'd been taking advantage of a drunk man, but for a moment there, he really thought it was real. That all his dreams about his dad could come real. 

And instead, he finds out his dad has been fucking some young punk in his gang. Fucking him, calling him son, getting called daddy and getting off even though it wasn't really his true baby boy. It was irrational, this fury, it was as crazy and nonsensical as wanting to fuck his father in the first place, he knew that, but...

He just needed to sleep. In the morning, he could measure his father's response, look at his own feelings objectively, poke and prod at all the corners and possibilities until he understood it all. Naked, he slid into the sheets. They were grimy and well-used, but comfortable compared to the places he'd been sleeping for months. The familiar smell of booze and sweat were strong in the sheets, wrapping his head in a warm dazed afterglow. 

He'd done it. He'd fucked his father. 

While his father had been thinking of someone else.

It was both the best and worst night of Jughead's life.

He'd be replaying most of the night's events over and over in his mind for weeks to come, for the rest of his life. He tightened his internal muscles, feeling the pull and soreness as he did. Yes, it was a good night, even if it didn't end well. If nothing else, he could hold this night in his memory forever.


End file.
